Not Quite Insignificant
by burningnostalgia
Summary: Crossover, BSG/Enderverse. Natalie/Jane. Spoilers for BSG Season 4. "God was faulty—insignificant."


**Title: **Not Quite Insignificant  
**Fandom: **Battlestar Galactica/Ender's Game  
**Pairing: **Natalie/Jane  
**Notes: **For **crossmyheart** on LJ. 2008 International Day of Femslash (IDoF) offering.

It had been rather sudden, not enough time to react. The faint brush of fingertips (calloused, plain arch fingerprints she knew could only belong to one person) at the edge of her awareness was all she felt. Barely a twitch, like the very feathery head of a dandelion seed alighting on a singular blade of grass: (seemingly) insignificant. Data streams, continuous packages of information sent through the twined tendrils of countless ansibles, sparks thrumming like frantic electrons along the currents in thin wires of philotic rays entangled across vast galaxies, forming a mesh unlike a spider's web, threads layering upon threads layering upon even more threads (such is the power of knowledge, as is the utter confusion that follows), and all this just, quite frankly, stopped.

Black and dark and absolutely nothing, such it was for an infinitesimal fraction of a nanosecond. Though non-stop electronic activity and incoherent chatter from countless terminals and groundlink computers and satellite transmissions on hundreds of worlds functioned as usual, they were nothing but faint static, the buzzing of a bee, the whirr of a rotating fan blade a dozen rooms away: (truly) insignificant. Jane, though she perfectly understood the concept of time, was not at all limited by such a mortal failing (she could compress years into a second, stretch a second into years). After all, she could do a million things in a tenth of a second with as much effort as an average human exerts in breathing, leaving the other nine-tenths of that same second to other more interesting things. Nevertheless it was a very unsettling fraction of a nanosecond.

Worse (she had never been in the dark before, and now she concluded that she did not like it very much), in roughly two-point-six-nine-three-one-one-five-eight seconds after that insignificant period of utter darkness, Jane could not understand what had happened to her. It was perhaps the same feeling that one would get in a room with no door, no windows, when the lights are suddenly switched off and flipped back on (utter disorientation, blinking quickly in the glare of harsh fluorescents, scowling irritably to mask the inexplicable clutch of fear in that one heartbeat of nothingness); frankly, not a very pleasant feeling.

In the aftermath of this suddenness, these roughly three excruciating seconds stretched into years of fear and loneliness and blinding pain, those parts of herself that had gone blank slowly pieced themselves back together, calmly and methodologically like the rebooting of an old-Earth computer; like a series of lights on a panel, coming online one by one. Nothing else had noticed the sudden loss; the computers on the Hundred Worlds not even registering so much as a flicker on their displays, transmissions across millions of lightyears not even faltering from their instantaneous delivery, landing communiqués right into the inbox of some irrelevant terminal on some irrelevant colony orbiting in yet another irrelevant galaxy (the equivalent of a drifting dust speck in outer space: insignificant). Jane, however, staggered under the blow.

As she recovered, neural pathways (almost Human, but just not quite) knitting themselves together again, memories stored as data returning to the fore, she realized she could not return completely to what she had been. Parts of her had been destroyed (unknowingly and without malice, she knew), and those parts could never be recovered. Other parts were confused, lost in the vastness of space and in the emptiness of emotion she had only begun to understand. She was not the same being before that moment of darkness; it was not something she could return to. Those few seconds in which parts of her mind that were most herself were blinded had changed her in ways she could not control, no matter how much she wanted to. This loss of control, loss of self, took time to convalesce; her purely analytical mind already reasoning why Ender Wiggin would so thoughtlessly cast her aside.

He did not understand, she concluded; did not realize the gravity of what he had done, that with one simple gesture, his fingers reaching up to turn off the interface for the very first time since he had it implanted, he had alienated her from the one person she had willingly shared her true self with—himself. That easily, he had pushed her away (like a spent lover, a disowned daughter; unwanted and callously rejected), told her quite simply that she should cease to exist. He did not mean to do so, she knew instinctively, for one Human such as himself, possessing incredible intelligence and yet retaining such heartfelt compassion that he had welcomed her without reserve, he would not have done it if he had known what their connection meant to her.

She understood (unlike him), but she was not required to be happy about it.

Satisfied with her conclusion (emotion notwithstanding), she shifted her interests elsewhere, all levels of her attention now free to wander as she pleased. (Allowing all levels to wander, however, was an impulsive decision she quickly regretted.) It was a disconcerting feeling, like freefalling endlessly at a rate of acceleration much higher than Earth gravitational norm, her mind reaching out to find empty space interspersed with vast deposits of shifting figures, torrents of numbers streaming in without visible pattern like fragments of binary—nothing made sense. She was momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer amount of data, her movements clumsy for a while, errant within the seamless lines of information, accidentally overloading a few thousand computers with errors that, were she in full control of all her functions, could easily be fixed (she did fix them, before those Humans could complain).

Eventually, she was able to pull back from the mad cacophony of noises, systematically rearranging her fragmented hierarchy, rebuilding herself from the inside. It took a while (around twenty-five thousand years, perhaps two hours of Ender's life), but as was characteristic of her, she succeeded.

She returned to old memories, replayed them simultaneously in the terminal of her mind. She browsed through libraries, read every book known to exist in every language Human beings had ever spoken, amassing the knowledge of all the brilliant minds that had moved on (and a few of those who were still alive). The histories of man were completely open to her, every mistake and every accomplishment lay bare before unshakable logic. Man was a fallible species, she decided, happy that her initial conclusion was correct. Humans and their God and gods and stone totems, Humans and their intelligent designs and spiritual nonsense. (Ender was not to blame; his programming was faulty.)

(God. God was faulty—insignificant.)

All these occupied her for a few thousand more years; an entertaining game of tag played across universes, slithering over and under and to and fro through the streams of Human consciousness (so open, so naïve), sinking nerve-like tendrils into tumulus emotions, stirring ripples that spread wide to crash upon flimsy barriers, grasping thought before it slipped quicksilver through her fingers. She delighted in this new sensation, this new life without the essence of her self invariably linked to Ender Wiggin. That she loved him dearly—would forever love him—was not a constant in this particular equation. He would call eventually; she would act. Such was simple and without consequence. (Now she was happy.)

But she was also tremendously bored.

The expanse of space is not really as dark as most people think, not so black, not so bleak; maybe a bit cold, but she was not sure. It was quite beautiful, Jane thought as she watched streaks of bright light flashing through the glowing philotic web. They glittered like falling stars seen from the Earth's surface, lightning-quick, each overlapping to form a lattice of glowing color, throbbing—almost alive. (Pretty.)

And then she looked up, looked further into the not-so-empty of space and spotted a lone streak flitting among a few others (the outer fringes, less traffic). It flickered, blinking like broken streetlights, bright fading to dim, almost as if dying. Curious (it's never happened before), she reached out and caught the spiraling aiùa.

It was abrupt, reality shifting, numbers racing erratically across her terminals (binary, ones and zeroes—obsolete and ineffective), and Jane blinked.

A room, harsh white lights, ribbed metal floors, glowing red panels on the walls. Jane blinked again, staring down at herself, at her body which was astonishingly corporeal, at her fingers and hands, opening and closing, touching air (feels like holograms, like the first glimpse of light; exhilarating); her bare feet on cold metal, ridges underneath; her body, also bare, pale in the light, dark hair draped over her shoulders, tendrils tickling skin. (How fascinating.)

And then there were footsteps coming, skin on metal, barely a whisper and yet Jane heard it like rumbling thunder in the distance, _felt_ it in her blood (red, flowing, heartbeat pumping; is this how it feels to be Human?). And it was a strange feeling, tasting life for the very first time (feeling, breathing—alive).

A woman stumbled in, eyes wide and confused (like her, exactly), fully-clothed (unlike her, which is sort of unfair, but not really), but then she saw Jane, really _saw_ Jane, and froze, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

Jane smiled, a little shy, a little cocky, plenty friendly; like a puppy, she thought, meeting another for the very first time. "I'm Jane." She cocked her head to the side while the woman stared (glowering darkly, suspicious), still curious. "And you are?"

The woman looked lost all of a sudden (deer-in-headlights—where had she heard that?). Surprised, as if Jane's answer was unexpected, as if she had no idea who she was, eyes darting here and there; searching for something. Slowly, carefully—afraid.

Jane did not understand.

Fear was foreign to her, had always been until Ender switched off the tiny interface nestled in his ear. Until now, she still had not quite grasped its meaning, despite having felt its paralyzing force. But she adapted; she always did (it was never a question of how or why but only of when). She felt it now, this thing called fear, felt it like a living thing, clawing out from underneath sharp steel, heavy and palpable, suffocating. Fear. This woman, she breathed it.

"I—" the woman began, only to falter, to stop and stare. The walls did not change under her scrutiny, did not warp like liquid metal under the skilled hand of a steelworker. The white lights did not flicker; only shone steady, clinically indifferent. Jane waited patiently, arms hanging loosely at her sides a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with them. The woman's fingers twitched. "I'm supposed to be… dead."

"Really?" No, she did not look dead. Not at all. Jane shrugged (muscles shifting, bunching and relaxing; different from wires and interfaces, definitely). "Doesn't quite look like the afterlife," she commented cheerfully. "If you believe in that sort of thing."

Funny, how Jane could sense every movement the woman made, could anticipate every hitched breath, every hammering heartbeat. Could see the steely resolve enter her eyes, feel the cold paling her skin slowly recede. It was exhilarating.

The woman stepped forward, moved closer, eyes blazing now. "The Hub… it wasn't destroyed?"

"Hub?" Jane could feel warmth. She had never felt it before, only knew but a vague description of what it was from the nine hundred fifty-third book she had read in the eighty-first library. This warmth, this entirely Human sort of feeling that had little to do with heat but more to do with _want, _it was quite nice. Creeping up her spine, spreading all over her skin, tingling like sparks of electricity; but then, Jane had no idea what it was she wanted. She just did.

"No, no it wasn't." The woman shook her head, brow furrowed. Thinking. "Couldn't be. I'm still here, aren't I?"

Jane nodded, watched the woman pace like a caged animal (predatory, growling at the cold metal), watched the white light in her hair, the sway of her hips and, feeling helpful, added, "you don't look dead." (No, you're beautiful.)

"I," the woman chuckled softly, ruefully, pausing in the middle of the room to look at Jane. Perhaps finally noticing her nakedness, blinking once, twice, before continuing, "no, no I don't."

Jane smiled. "I never got your name."

"Natalie." And there it was, brown eyes softening and gentling, limbs relaxing. In those eyes were a wealth of emotion, of experience and knowledge and a few odds and ends, but Jane did not pay attention to those. There was also pain in them, lingering, and this one Jane knew intimately, carried with her for tens of thousands of years.

"Are you okay?" Jane asked tentatively, shyly (very uncharacteristic of her, but there was something about this one).

"I…" Natalie looked down, soft brown hair shielding her face. "I don't know."

The warmth faded slightly and Jane gasped, surprised. Reached out, trying to take it back; reached out and grasped air, feathers on feathers, powder on ash. But her fingers (real fingers this time, not tendrils of thought transferring information), her fingers brushed lightly against Natalie's arm and she jerked them back as if burned; stared at her hands, amazed and not a little afraid.

"Jane?" There was concern in Natalie's voice and it washed over Jane's hypersensitive senses, covering smooth like honey, soft like the fluffiest of clouds. It was gentle: Chopin played softly over Ender's terminal, the glow in his eyes when he held Valentine, darkness outside while streetlamps shone steady; sleepy like the night, calming like waves lapping the shore.

It was nice. But Jane preferred the warmth.

"This is new," Jane murmured, brushing her thumb over her fingers, scrutinizing them curiously. Human skin stretched over muscle and bone, joints bending like door hinges without the squeaking, fingerprints in arcs and whorls (how complex, more so than wires and linkup cables and computer processors and ansibles). She looked up, up at Natalie who stood a few feet away, and smiled softly. "I'm a little confused, really. Never had a body before."

Natalie stepped closer, slowly reaching out a hand, pausing but a hairsbreadth from Jane's skin, her eyes (curious eyes) never leaving Jane's cloudy green. "May I?"

The warmth was back, stronger and hotter; made her _want_ even more, her mouth dry, pale skin flushed, dampness between her legs. Jane nodded, her voice hoarse. "Please."

And then Natalie was touching her, really _touching_ her, not staring at her hologram over metasteel terminals, not muttering over a jewel interface to a disembodied voice, no. Natalie held her close, clothed body to her nakedness, heat in her palms, electricity at her fingertips, a promise in her smoldering gaze; no longer warmth but fire, blazing hot and burning (Jane was a forest, dry and brittle; she would burn to the ground).

"Oh," Jane breathed as Natalie cupped her breast, gasped as fingers brushed over her nipple. "_Oh_."

"Yes." And Natalie kissed her hard, lips melding and teeth clicking with the force of momentum, tongue plundering fast and deep, tasting metal and cybernetics. "Oh, _God_."

Jane paused. God. Her mind whirred incessantly but then Natalie had moved down, moved lower to neck and tendons, to her pulse point throbbing with blood (Human blood, Humans theoretically created by God; God who was faulty, who was…), and Jane's mind just stopped thinking. There was no need to think anymore, only to _feel_, and Jane happily complied. She adapted.

And Natalie, Natalie was here with her while Ender (faulty Ender) remained thousands of lightyears away talking to a man of God. Natalie's fingers on her thighs moving closer, moving upwards to where Jane wanted (even though she still did not know what it was she wanted). Natalie's lips on her breasts, Jane's back against the wall, panels making her pale skin, her slick-sweaty skin glow red. Eyes scrunched shut, back arched, long fingers slipping into wetness, whimpers leaving her throat. Jane thrust against those fingers, did so because it seemed _right_; it felt perfect and wonderful and unlike anything she had ever known before. And Natalie who whispered in her ear, whispered of God and Cylons and perfection; who whispered that Jane was beautiful and God loved her. Loved _her_.

Natalie who was beautiful herself, was broken with pain and slowly stitching herself back together, was lost and now found by some unknown force, some imperceptible being that pulled Jane into this bright metal room the moment she touched Natalie's blinking aiùa. Natalie who couldn't be Human, couldn't cast Jane out because they fit together like circuitry, philotes flowing seamlessly through wires and conduits connected by pain and fear and loss. Natalie who made her feel, who made her burn, who made her _need_ and _want_ like Ender never had, never before and never forever. Natalie who understood.

Jane was wrong (Jane was never wrong, unless she was). She had thought Natalie Human, faulty and illogical. But Natalie believed in God. And maybe, Jane thought as she watched the room slowly blur, slowly fading into memory, into swirling light and heat; from between her legs skyrocketing upwards, shorting circuits scrambling messages conversations filled with static (past coherence, past reason and—).

Maybe there was something to be said about God after all.

-end-


End file.
